Ripped (Real, #5)(17)

I can’t wait to get away.

We need to get away.

He strokes my face with his long, guitar-playing fingers. “I know they need us, but they won’t need us forever. The hearing isn’t until a couple of months. Whatever happens with my father, whatever the judge decides . . . we’ll meet at the park that night, and we’ll run away. Get married. I can get a couple of gigs at a few local bars, I can support you through college.”

“Will you really help me pay my college tuition, Kenna? Are you sure you can do it?” I ask hopefully.

“Hell, I’d do anything for you.” He’s deadly serious as he speaks the words, giving my shoulders a squeeze. “I’m tired of hiding, you know.”

“I’m tired too.”

“I want to be with you. Out in the open. I’m sick of being your secret. I want to be your guy. I want people to know you’re mine.”

“But I am.” I lift my hand to his line of vision again, wiggling my beautifully adorned finger. “I am yours. And our plan’s still on, whatever happens. I’ll meet you at the park after the trial.”

He smiles a sad smile at the mention of the trial, then he kisses the ring on my hand, and then, well . . . then he pulls me by the small of my back against his hard, broad chest and kisses me stupid. “I love you. Always,” he husks out.

There are ways people love you.

There are all kinds and types of love, I’ve found.

The way you love pets. Your friends. The way your parents love you. Your cousins. And there was this whole other way Mackenna and I loved each other.

Our love was like a raging storm and a harbor: unruly and unstoppable, wild and endless, but steady and safe . . .

Or so . . . my fool seventeen-year-old heart thought.

Months later, I sat on a rickety old bench for hours, until the park grew pitch black, empty. I could’ve been robbed or maybe even kidnapped, it was so dark. I was so stupid and na?ve, I still waited, my toenails freshly painted, my shoes new, my dress the one I thought I looked prettiest in—at least one of the few that was not black but a light yellow. And I waited, running my hands down my loose hair. I twirled my promise ring on my finger until the base of my finger grew red and I realized he wasn’t coming. And my eyes stung and my lungs closed when the figure that appeared that night was my mother’s, my mother who couldn’t possibly know I was dating him, extending her hand.

“He’s not coming,” she whispered.

“He’s coming, Mother. I’m leaving. You can’t stop me,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

“I don’t need to stop you. I just convicted his father, Pandora. You won’t be leaving with that boy. He’s not coming. I saw him with someone else. I’ll wait in the car.”

With someone else . . .

Just like my dad.

Mackenna lied to me.

And just like that, Mackenna broke me. . . .





FIVE


HAZED


Pandora


Okay, so here’s the deal. A fact of life I’ve just proven. Everyone believes rock bands live in this sick little world, where all the band members get stoned, drunk, and laid, curse and argue, and every day is like this big ol’ party?

Well, it’s true.

They rehearse, of course. They work—some of the time. But holy shit, do these people know how to party. Even Trombone Guy, Violin Guy, and Piano Guy are hitting the booze tonight.

Party animals.

The whole lot of them.

“You wanna drink?” Violin Guy offers, but when I say no, I watch him simply shrug and leave with his buddies, the Harpist and the Flute Guy, instead.

Really, all I want to do is go to my room and order a burger and French fries, but we’re supposed to be “partying,” and the cameras are making sure not to miss a single moment of the stupidity happening here.

I even begin to wonder if some of it is purely for marketing purposes.

Hanging close to a cameraman so he won’t tape me—I’m sure I’m wearing my most sour, tart face—I spot Mackenna by the beer pong. The amount of alcohol around here is mind-boggling. Body shots all over the place. Beer pong, drinks, booze, drugs. Even a shisha is going around.

I might try that if I were with my friends. Mel and Brooke, Kyle . . .

As it is, I won’t drop my guard for a second, especially with Mackenna Jones nearby and a thousand cameras around us. Imagine me drunk? With Mackenna nearby?

I might kill him.

I might . . . well, he’s so disgustingly male, I might feel him up while I kill him.

His lean arms are resting on the table as he waits for his opponent to throw the ball into his beer cup. His opponent happens to be one of the twins, and after he fails to make his shot, Mackenna smoothly dumps the ball into his cup, laughing while making the Viking—I think it’s Lex—drink.

Yeah, those two are pounding the booze.

I want to stop staring, but I can’t. Mackenna laughs out loud a lot, and the sound easily reaches my ears even though I’m across the room.

He’s changed in all these years. He’s still got that aura of a boy, but he’s so much a man now. I can’t stop cataloguing the differences. His jaw is squarer and slightly shadowed. Fuller lips. Thicker throat. He’s got muscles on his arms like there’s no tomorrow. He’s just so tan and . . . man. I watch as he waits for Lex to throw the ball into his beer cup again.